


Notes in a Minor Cord

by Bellaphant



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Popstar, M/M, Pining, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellaphant/pseuds/Bellaphant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Jonny made Patrick Laugh and One Time He Didn't.</p><p>Popstar/bodyguard AU. </p><p> </p><p>Patrick has hit the bigtime, but the city lights are a little more blinding than he was expecting. Jonny thinks he's got everything worked out, but while he may be brilliant at spotting and apprehending potential threats, he's kind of good at missing the obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes in a Minor Cord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oops_ohdear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oops_ohdear/gifts).



5 times Jonny made Patrick laugh

1)  
Patrick thought Coach was joking when he decided that he rated Patrick enough to assign him a bodyguard. He knew some of his old fans were pissed at him, but he's pretty sure no-one wanted to actually hurt him – so he ignored the invitation to the interview. That turned out to be a total mistake because the first three people Coach sent lasted about five months between them. They complained about the travel, about Patrick's schedule, the 'poorly defined job role' and Patrick's own attitude, which, fuck them.

 

And then he found Jonny. Or rather, fate, disguised as Patrick Sharp, found Jonny. 

 

Patrick's at some terrible charity event, full of fancy canapés, flickering fairy lights and sensible married men in suits with their glamorously dressed wives who were probably wondering who let a _popstar_ in, when he spots Sharpy and Abby across the room. He grins – not only were they the first people he'd recognised all night, but Abby'd always been able to give baller advice. He works his way through the busy, chattering room, shaking hands with the occasional randomer and giving them his best smile – always got to work on the public profile – before reaching over to steal a sip of Sharpy's abandoned beer.

 

“Kaner! Didn't think you'd be here tonight, wasn't sure it was your kind of thing.” Abby grins, open and easy and draws him into a hug. Patrick shrugs, because neither is he – he's just here to be seen, as a favour to Coach. Abby gives a small, knowing smile at that, like she understands, and launches into a story about Maddy terrorising their new nanny instead. Patrick feels his shoulders relax for the first time in a few hours – he hates these kinds of event, is terrible at turning up on time, appropriately dressed and knowing what to say (or not say) to who.

 

It'd been a few months back when he'd run into Patrick Sharp at the bar of one of these fundraisers. Patrick had been all kinds of starstruck (he'd been into the Sabres in a big way growing up, going to games with his dad, posters on the wall, a weird twitter friendship with Sam Gagner) and had started following the Hawks shortly after buying his apartment. He'd been even more surprised when _Patrick Sharp, Captain of the Blackhawks_ had winked at him, handed him a beer and casually mentioned that some of the younger dudes in the locker room were totally into some of his older tunes.

 

Patrick'd tried not to do anything too stupid, shuffling awkwardly and trying not to stare – he'd have to be dead not to notice how handsome Sharpy was – and sipped at his drink. He'd let Sharpy herd him into a corner, where he met Abby, had a bit more beer and relaxed enough to trade sarcastic comments about the rest of the room. It'd been the start of a strange, but beautiful friendship, bolstered by ridiculous texts, occasional coffee dates with Abby, and Cubs games. Patrick had kind of come to rely on them for adult company, or just goofing off playing _Hungry Hippos_ with Maddy.

 

He's especially grateful for it today – Abby would totally know what to do about his employee situation. He explains briefly what his issues are and what he needs.

 

“So, it's not a 'body-guard', per-say, but someone to run interference with the crowds of hormone and sugar filled...I mean, your fans,” Sharpy corrects himself before Abby's elbow can connect with his ribs, and smirks. “Work with you at media things, maybe do some driving?” Patrick nods – he didn't feel it was appropriate to add, “Fetch me coffee, organise my schedule and remind me to buy presents for my relatives.” He's aware enough of his reputation – a little spoilt, a little flaky, he doesn't need to give anyone any extra ammunition.

 

Sharpy takes a slow sip of his beer, pulls a face at Abby that clearly only makes sense to married people, and shrugs. Abby smiles, slow and not quite as reassuring as Patrick'd hoped for. She nods, like she's giving Sharpy permission and Sharpy speaks. “Actually, Kaner, you're in luck. There's a guy who did a bit of work for the 'Hawks media team last fall. Not sure if he's available right now, but I could get you in touch. He's very dedicated, focused, knows how to handle himself and is certainly...”

 

Sharpy trails off, leaving Abby to fill in the gap. “He can be pretty intimidating, I guess. Very tall, direct, got this scary look in his eyes.”

 

Sharpy nods. “He's kinda intense. I got him with the usual water bucket over the doorway trick, about a month after he started – and he _flipped_. I actually had to apologise, because Jonny was the only one who knew where we were meant to be going next, and he wouldn’t tell, until I'd said sorry. He was stood there, water dripping down his face, staring me down.”

 

Patrick frowns – this dude sounded like a psycho. He'd only just coped with Duncs. Abby must've noticed, because she continues, “Hang on, I'm sure Patrick got a photo.” She pulls out her phone, hand it over. Patrick looks down at the shot - the photo is kind of shitty, blurry, but he gets flashes of brown hair, affronted, wide, deep eyes, a haze of dripping water and a challenging glare. Two thoughts pop unbidden into his mind a)he’s kind of hot and b) he looks exactly like Grumpy Cat. His sisters would love this picture. He looks again, can’t help but laugh at the barely repressed frustration, the way the dudes forcing himself to smile, like he’s in on the joke. Abby nods, like this is the correct response.

 

“Exactly. But actually, he's pretty cool. We did an event for one of the hospitals at the U.C with loads of kids and he was there 'til the end, taking them round the ice. Stan told us later that he wasn't scheduled to work that day, was there 'coz he wanted to be.” Abby pauses, reaches to take another sip of her drink with a considering expression. “Honestly, it's worth an interview, at least. I think he could do good things with you.” She leans across the table a little, keeping eye contact with Patrick. He's pretty sure he is missing something, so he turns to Sharpy instead, but Sharpy's just grinning at him, smug, with one eyebrow raised.

 

“Take him on, even if it's just for six months. Whatever happens, I'm sure you'll find some inspiration for your next album.” Sharpy pauses a second, his smile turning more predatory. “How's that going, anyway?” Patrick groans, head falling forwards onto the table, vaguely aware of Abby chuckling next to him.

 

2)

Patrick'd taken Sharpy's advice, despite his reservations, and forwarded Jonny's details on to one of Coach's team, added the interview to his schedule. Unfortunately, he'd also added one of Coach's club nights to his schedule the night before, and had allowed himself to be completely distracted by two slamming girls...Aymie? Mia? He was sure he'd known at some point, but they got lost somewhere between the beer and free shots. Patrick'd meant to keep it low-key – the P.R. dude Coach'd assigned to him was making alarming noises about negative press – but that had got lost too. So, when he rolls into Coach's offices three hours late, he isn't fully prepared for what he sees.

 

Jonny turns out to be a dark haired, dark eyed, ridiculously _built_ dude in one of the best fitting suits he'd ever seen, sitting ramrod straight in his chair and nodding attentively along to whatever the H.R. dude was saying. Sharpy's picture hasn't done him any justice. Patrick tries not to stare too much, but Jonny just raises his eyebrows at Patrick as he slides into his seat, which, _rude_. Patrick just smirks, trying to look like he’s on his best behaviour.

 

He busies himself with coffee, sneaking occasional glances at Jonny; he certainly looks like a bodyguard, all taut muscle and compressed energy. Patrick has no idea what they're talking about, but Jonny's answers seem clear, confident and occasionally just this side of polite, like he thinks the questions were boring, or obvious. 

 

Patrick tunes in enough to catch the H.R. check his notes. He asks, “So, um, Jonathan, how would you conduct a preliminary risk assessment of a public engagement session in a publicly managed building?”Jonny takes a second, his first noticeable hesitation, and Patrick finds himself rooting for Jonny to come up with a decent answer, quick. Jonny just exhales, slowly, and launches into a paced, slightly monotone answer about stakeholders, talent, exits and sightlines. Patrick’s about to tune out again, when Jonny catches his eyes, and without breaking his flow, rolls his eyes at Patrick. Not _at_ him, but like he wants Patrick to join in the joke. 

 

None of the other applicants have been like that, so Patrick leans over to grab Jonny's resume from the table. He skims past all the boring bits, qualifications, references (he spots Sharpy's name and grins) skips over the 'nearly achieved black belt status in taekwondo (when I was nine)' – because, _what_ – and settles on the personality questions that he'd insisted on – what, he couldn't work with someone who hated _Twilight_ or kept pet snakes or something.

 **If you could be an animal which would you be?**  
Tiger  
 **Why?**  
They run fast and they eat things  
Patrick laughs so loud that Jonny and the guy asking questions stops and stares at him. Patrick shrugs – as far as he was concerned, the interview is over. This dude was amazing.

 

(Coach argues with him – apparently, Jonny doesn’t have the right training, the right skills, refuses to carry a weapon and his degree in literature really isn't helping his cause. Patrick listens, nods, and ignores him. Patrick's going to do what he wants on this one. After their West Coast trip, where Jonny puts out a small fire in the engine of Patrick's car, single-handedly navigates them around San Francisco, helps Patrick's intern-runner with one of his essays _and_ fixes a massive venue booking fuck-up with charm, persistence and a stare that is becoming fondly known as the 'shark eyes' , Coach is about as sold as everyone else.

 

Patrick doesn't need to mention the times he's woken up from flights to find his sunglasses removed from his face and his blankets pulled up, the times he's suggested dinner at one a.m. and Jonny'd not only found him a take-out that was open, but had come with him to share jokes and fries, the time Jonny found him crying at a movie and only responded by passing him tissues.)

3)

It's nine twenty seven a.m., exactly, and Patrick's wondering what idiot decided to hire Jonny anyway. Patrick knows exactly what time it is because he's been checking his watch for the last fifteen minutes. Jonny's late. Really, unacceptably late, seeing as Patrick's meant to be the other side of Chicago by ten for a radio interview. It's way too early in the morning for this shit, and Jonny hasn't even brought him his coffee yet. He rocks back and forth on his heels, considers digging out his note-book; there's a bridge that he can't quite get right that he's snatching every spare twenty minutes to fix, but again – no coffee. Patrick's pretty sure that his slight lyrical crisis isn't going to be fixed by a caramel vanilla skinny latte (with extra cream, obviously), but it'd at least make him feel better about it.

 

The doors to the lobby swing open, and finally, coffee arrives, with a red-faced, pissy looking Jonny close behind. Patrick doesn't say anything – if he criticizes, Jonny's only going to tell him, “bodyguards don't normally have to drag themselves to ridiculous hipster coffee bars – you should be getting someone else to run around after you.” Which, while potentially right, is also the start of an argument that Patrick's gone through millions of times before with him. Yeah, Patrick's got runners, but they're a) generally only assigned on shoots b) kind of shitty at a lot of the basic tasks Patrick needs accomplishing, booking appointments for the wrong days, scheduling his stops for the day in a baffling web across the city, bringing the wrong clothes for shoots. Patrick doesn't usually cover c), because “It's more fun when it's you” is almost as confusing as it is unprofessional. Normally Patrick just gives Jonny half of his bagels, which at least distracts Jonny into bitching about the time that he's going to have to put in at the gym to burn off all the stupid food Patrick passes his way.

 

Patrick's feeling that today is definitely not a day to cover 'C'; Jonny looks on edge already, and they've got a packed scheduled 'til gone eleven that evening. It doesn't get any better when they head to Patrick's car; fire-truck red, fast, and not 'ten times the size of him', whatever Jonny says. He loves his car so much he refuses to get a driver, although he does occasionally let Jonny drive. 

 

They make their way to the radio interview. Patrick's aware that Jonny's shooting him odd glances as he drives, and he realises he's gripping the wheel too tight, taking corners a little fast even for him. He flicks the radio on – something talky, sports based, he doesn't want to hear his songs playing today – and tries to relax. He should've tried harder to sleep last night, shouldn't have been messing about with chords at 3am, but he'd thought he was on to something – it's just a shame that his baller opening looked like shit when he woke up.

 

It was also a shame that Patrick'd thought that pre-dawn would be an awesome time to google himself; it's a hangover from his early days, seeing whether anyone had noticed his act. These days, though, writers seem far more interested in his personal life than his music; torrid headlines, kiss-and-tells, photos of Patrick leaving bars at 3am with a loose grip on some dark-haired beauty (they seem to ignore the occasional pictures of Patrick dancing with dudes, dismiss it as youthful high spirits, which he is grateful for) and an even looser one on his sobriety. Normally he manages to ignore it – haters gonna hate, whatever – but he'd feel a lot more confident ignoring the commenters who label him lucky but talentless, if he wasn't fielding calls from Coach demanding to know when the lead single for the next album was ready.

 

They pull up to the building and Jonny gets out first, does a quick scan of the parking lot before grabbing Patrick's bag. Patrick doesn't even fight him anymore – he doesn't need anyone to carry his shit around, actually thinks it's hella embarrassing, but Jonny'd got so offended last time that it's not worth saying anything.

 

“You okay, Mis...Patrick?” Jonny catches up to him in the corridor, bumps their shoulders awkwardly. Patrick smiles – he'd told Jonny basically on the first day that calling him 'Mr Kane' was ridiculous because, for one, they were pretty much the same age and also, Mr Kane was his dad. He'd ask Jonny to call him Kaner, if he didn't think it would hurt his polite, Canadian soul.

 

(That's a lie, he might, just to see the look on Jonny's face, but he'll save that for a day when he's really struggling.)

 

“Kinda nervous, bud. Didn't sleep well, you know...” Jonny just blinks at him, like he can't imagine why. 

 

“Girl trouble?” Jonny says, and Patrick knows he's trying to keep it bland, but for someone who's normally stuck in the lower middle register with a chest voice that gives a monotone rumble, it's particularly easy to hear changes in inflection. (Well, it is for Patrick. When he'd mentioned this to Sharpy, he'd just laughed. Whatever, he's got awesome skills, Sharpy's just jealous.) Patrick's aware of Jonny's thoughts on his love life, even though it's none of his fucking business. Patrick's pretty sure that if Jonny spent less time judging, he'd notice that he's been co-ordinating a lot less with the security guys in fancy restaurants lately, has organised a lot less four a.m. taxi rides home. Patrick knows that he's not being fair, knows that it's not like Jonny asks to get involved, but somedays, he catches Jonny's eyes on him and can almost hear 'be better' from him – like it's being projected that loudly from Jonny's thoughts.

 

He's glad that they can't actually read each others thoughts, though, because some of his recently would get him in front of an employment tribunal. He's sure it's just...proximity, or something, the West Coast trip and the long flights and that one night they got drunk and talked about their exes.

 

(They'd been in Patrick's hotel room – actually, they’d been in the only hotel room available. Someone had fucked up the booking, and Jonny’d refused on ‘operational principle’ to sleep in their sister hotel a few blocks away. All they had to offer was a suite, and yeah, it had two beds, and they’d promised unlimited access to the mini-bar _and_ all the T.V. channels Patrick’s heart desired but it wasn’t ideal. Patrick had agreed to share – what , he couldn’t let the Jonny sleep in his car – and Jonny had agreed, but first he’d insisted on checking access points and visibility, even though it was gone midnight. Patrick had thrown dirty socks at him until he'd stopped being stupid and helped him raid the mini-bar. Jonny’d settled on the bed furthest away from the door, claimed it as his for the night and proceeded to get hilariously tipsy on bourbon. Patrick’d joined him, backs cold against the weird, futuristic metal headboard, reveling in the still unusual feeling of pillows that were nearly bigger than him. 

 

Jonny'd mentioned Ryan cautiously before, a couple of neutral pronouns here and there, but something about the anonymous setting, the beer or just the jet-lag had eased them both into a fragile feeling of familiarity, security. The lights were low, the orange tinge of the city creeping through the blinds making Jonny look back-lit, the sibilant hum of traffic. It was cozy, safe. Patrick’s pretty sure he’d started it, said something stupid about his college girlfriend, Emily, how she’d hated the distance and the gigs and the way other girls (and boys) looked at him, the way she sometimes caught him looking bag. It’d been pretty embarrassing, so he’d been relieved when Jonny had smiled, soft and just a little shy, and started to talk. Jonny’d settled back against the wall – he’d claimed the bed furthest from the wall the second he walked into the room – and started explaining how Jonny'd moved to Chicago to be with Ryan, how it just hadn't worked. Patrick’d tried to make the right noises in the right places, not to ask too many questions. Mainly, he’d felt more and more distracted by how close Jonny was

 

In the soft glow coming in from Patrick's bedside lamp, Patrick had noticed how the light highlighted Jonny's profile, his eyelashes, how the timbre of Jonny's laugh had made the bed they were collapsed on shudder. It’d crossed his mind to wonder when he’d stopped noticing Jonny’s proximity, and why he’d suddenly started to be aware of it again.)

 

When he tried to explain it to Sharpy, to his sisters, they were quick to agree with his diagnosis of Stockholm syndrome. Unfortunately, they'd all agreed how hard it would be for _Jonny_. Patrick'd sulked when Erica and Jess had mentioned it, but by the time Jacqui had responded in exactly the same way, he couldn't help but laugh.

4)

Patrick glares at the _Cubase_ software in disgust, like it's the programme's fault he can't find a chord progression that he likes. He takes sip of his rum and coke, glances up to the hotel bar wondering if he can be bothered to get a second, whether it'd help the writing process or make it worse. He scrubs his hand over his face, fiddles the cord of his headphones over his lips. He turns the page of his notebook and rolls his shoulders. This verse is totally going to be his by the end of the night.

 

 _'Coz it's late at night and the city lights don't...something_ , he'll fix that bit later, but he's happy with the internal rhyme, the cadence.  
 _I'm flying through the city, can't stop and take this in._  
 _Rushing through New York, blowing through the Windy city,_  
 _Lost in the city of angels, trying to find my own temple of sin_

_Lights flashing, passing me by, falling on your skin._  
 _And I'm dazzled by the way they shine, lights falling on your face and mine_  
 _Makes you look like an angel, like you're glowing, 'coz you know you're gonna be mine._

 

Patrick looks up, satisfied – it's not perfect, and the double 'mine' is plain lazy, but it's a relief to get some of his ideas down. He knows he's got to do well, here – people are expecting a lot from this album, and the queue of people lining up to praise him if it goes well is only a little bigger than the people who are waiting for, if not wanting him, to fail. He knows he's been lucky – he hears it a lot, slightly tinged with jealousy from his friends back home, in interviews, even from Coach himself.

 

He basically agrees– apart from on those days when he's feeling particularly prickly and has to quickly suppress the “Fuck you, luck is nothing to do with it. I worked damn hard to be where I am” from snapping out. What was there to disagree with? He's got a platinum album, a sold-out pan-American tour in his pocket and a bunch of dates lined up in Europe next spring. He'd challenge anyone to look down at the Chicago River from his penthouse apartment, to sit in the box at a Cubs game, to have their apartment serviced by his killer house-keeping team and feel blue about it. It's not even the premiers, the photoshoots, the headlines – it's things like buying his first car, sending his sisters flowers and the best Belgian chocolates when their boyfriends are dicks, the way he paid for his Dad's new car. He's got a lot to feel good about.

 

But on nights like tonight, stuck on a layover in L.A. on the way to a photoshoot, where he's awake and _alone_ and can't get away from the pressure of his own expectations, he misses what his life was like before Coach's agent had come to one of his shows. Well, one of Duncs and Seabs's shows, really. They'd met after a few two many of their bookings had overlapped – Patrick's pretty sure their agents were buddies. Patrick wasn’t really aware of Duncs and Seabs's music before, not really quite his thing - he’d never been a fan of metal, not even the punk kind. But, after his first night opening for D-men, Seabs had bought him beer, chatted shit with him, and even Duncs’d made him laugh. They had seemed an odd mix with Patrick's country stylings, but together they'd seemed to pull in the crowds and reliably book venues, and that was money in their pockets that they couldn't refuse. Patrick's pretty sure (although his memory is a bit muddled by the shots they were downing) that joining up for a tour had been Duncs's idea – he may've looked like a serial killer, but he was the business mind of his group.

 

So, they launched some dates under the name 'The D-men and The Pixie'. Patrick had thought the contrast was funny at the time, had been able to make jokes about appealing to all demographics. He knew it was a success straight away – the energy of the crowd that first night, the fact he had to beg whichever of his sisters were free to come and help him sell his C.D.s as he literally didn't have enough hands, the amount of girls (and, suddenly, dudes) who asked for his number. They'd only made it halfway through their run of dates before Patrick had received the call from Coach. He'd been asked to feature on a song for another artist, and when that went well, Coach'd given him his own single to release. It may've been more pop, more mainstream than Patrick was used to, more auto-tune and less guitar, but when he'd seen the money Coach was offering, he couldn't exactly refuse.

 

But now he wishes he'd held his ground a little more, held out for less covers and more instruments, wishes he could've done his friends a few more favours. Still, if this album is a success, maybe he could start. 

 

He glances at his notebook then up at the bar, then blinks. “Hey.” Jonny's heading his way, and his smile might be confident and easy, but he hesitates before he sits down next to Patrick. Patrick gestures to the chair – it's not like company can hurt, at this point. Jonny takes a long drag of his own drink – soda, Jonny's still on the job – and tips his head, quizzical. Patrick shifts in his seat – he's still not used to the idea of Jonny as his _friend_. He'd been able to convince himself, on the West Coast trip, that Jonny was okay with hanging out with him as a) there was no-one else and b) to secure his employment. But it kept happening. Patrick's still feeling awkward about it – he knows he (well, Coach) pays Jonny a pretty baller wage, and that Patrick's not _oppressing_ him, or whatever, but it's always a surprise to him how quickly he relaxes into Jonny's company, how Jonny makes him laugh, how Jonny's sharky eyes flash with humour and understanding as Patrick makes snarky observations about the people around them. They're not exactly friends, and that's without the added complication of how many times Jonny's recently slipped into Patrick's imagination as he jerks off. (He can be a little selfish, he admits, and the idea of someone being there for _him_ is an intoxicating, if not particularly well adjusted idea.)

 

“What're you working on?” Jonny asks, gesturing towards Patrick's notebook.

 

“Same as always, bro.” Patrick's not aiming for sarcastic and he's relieved when Jonny just nods, accepts it. Jonny reaches for the book and Patrick hesitates; he's not exactly precious about his writing, but...it's another late night, and the quiet feels like a veil of safety around them, draping them in secrets. He bites his lip and nudges it towards Jonny, watches his reaction quietly.

 

“I...” It takes a few seconds, but Jonny starts again. “It's not exactly 'Showtime, Baby', is it?”

 

Patrick feels his fists clench under the table at the mention of his breakthrough track – ' _Showtime Baby, gonna show you how you score tonight, gonna do it on the floor tonight, gonna leave you wanting more – do it so right_ ' may not be lyrical genius, but it's paying for the rum and coke in front of him, for the hotel room. He's not going to be ashamed. 

 

Jonny clearly takes his reaction for defensiveness, as he carries on with, “It's good. Different. It...it sounds a little like your old stuff, you know?”

 

Patrick blinks – Jonny's never mentioned even hearing of him before he got big, let alone admitted to having a reasonable knowledge of lyrics from three years ago. Jonny sneaks a glance over the notebook, catches Patrick's expression and grins. “Eh, whatever. It's almost not as terrible – slightly less cowboy boots, whisky and fallen angels.” He smiles soft at the edges when he says it, and it's enough to make Patrick chuckle, to slump back in his seat.

 

He grins, flips Jonny the finger. “Like you could do better, loser.” It's meant to be a challenge, and Patrick hates the element of of a plea he hears in it.

 

Jonny's smile quirks. “You know, I did Romantic Poetry for a semester. We had to write some of our own stuff – don't think you're audience is the daffodil and albatross kind, though.”

 

Patrick just blinks at him, because _what_ , but Jonny sniggers like he thinks he's made a joke, so Patrick smiles anyway. It's good to see him this relaxed. It makes Patrick relaxed enough to bring his feet up on the seat, to curl around his rum and coke and watches Jonny dick around with his pockets. He pulls out some pepper spray, a small tube of...something, a couple of ear-pieces, and finally a pen. He tips it towards Patrick, waits a second for a response, and Patrick can't bring himself to do anything but shrug. He'd kind of forgotten that Jonny'd done Literature, that he'd probably be better than him at shit like assonance and personification.

 

The background bar music is low – Patrick hadn't heard it over his headphones, over Jonny, but now it's the only thing he can hear over Jonny's breathing, the slight scratch of the pen. He must doze, or something, because he starts alert to the scrape of a chair, to Jonny's hand on his shoulder. For a wild second, a stupid hangover from sleep, he thinks Jonny's going to kiss him and it's frightening how easy he feels about that. But Jonny pulls back and runs his hand through his hair.

 

“I'm off to bed. I didn't want to wake you, but it would've been lax of me to leave you.” Patrick looks around the empty, threat free bar and wonders at Jonny's dedication to his job. “You're not quite small enough to lift,” Jonny quips, and Patrick gathers enough strength to punch him in the arm.

 

He levers himself up, and the head to the elevator – the silence is odd, Jonny rocking onto his toes as he waits like he's still got loads of energy at whatever time it is. Patrick catches him yawn in the elevator mirror, though – he's not fooling anyone.

 

He doesn't think to check his notebook until the next morning. He flicks straight to the back – he's pretty sure he's going to find whatever Jonny'd written there – and reads.

_There once was a boy born in Buf'lo_  
 _Who's voice was as 'sick as his flow'_  
 _He played his guitar,_  
 _to crowds near and far_  
 _...something something something, Yo!_

Patrick laughs, loud and unselfconscious in his hotel room. He wonders if Jonny'd known he never goes anywhere without his notebook, whether he'd intentionally stuck him with his terrible poetry forever.

 

(It's not 'til weeks later that Patrick finds what else Jonny'd written, upside down on the inside leaf of the back cover.

 

_'Coz it's late at night and the city lights don't shine so bright like they used to._  
 _I'm flying through the city, can't stop and take this in._  
 _Crashing through New York, blowing through the Windy city,_  
 _Lost in the city of angels, trying to cleanse my sin_

_And the light glows softly, over your skin,_  
 _like it's trying to reflect your beauty within_  
 _When you smile so bright, the light shines out_  
 _Makes me wonder what I'm living without_. 

 

It's...it's a good start to a baller love song, is what it is. Jonny's a genius. Patrick reads it, re-reads it, writes more verses and a bridge. He sends it to Coach, who rejects it within the hour – it won't connect to the teenage market, apparently. Patrick keeps the songfile anyway, starting on a second song, an idea for all those stupid d-minor chords in his head. He's pretty sure this one's going to go straight in the reject pile as well, but he doesn't care – his slump is broken and he's streaking.)

 

5)

“Fuck's sake, can we go get a beer? My voice is shot – why they gotta ask so many boring questions?” Patrick rolls his eyes as Jonny shushes him, moves him further away from the door.

 

“Because you're famous? Because you sell column inches? Because they 'really want to know what kind of girl you're looking for'?” Jonny's mocking too, but quieter, in Patrick's ear – he's being a lot more discreet. Patrick shakes his head, heads towards his car – he wants a drink, but he doesn't want to go through the hassle of Jonny calling somewhere, checking for bugs. (Patrick's got a little bit more security conscious recently – there's been a couple of leaked picture of him in a, well, less than dressed state, a couple of 'comments from anonymous sources' that have been a little too close to home.)

 

Jonny follows because he hasn't been told not to, and he's still on duty, which is why they end up in Patrick's apartment, drinking beer and looking down onto the river. Or rather, Patrick's watching T.V. Jonny can't stop staring at the view. Patrick's feeling kind of awkward – it'd seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

Patrick coughs, voice still dry from the interview and tries, “Thanks for coming, man.”

 

Jonny nods, still staring out at Navy Pier. “It's fine. I was kind of waiting for them to ask if Taylor Swift's new song was about you, though.” He laughs, low and relaxed, and Patrick joins in, before he realises that even though Jonny's joking it's probably going to be an actual question in his new future, even though he's never met the girl.

 

“Yeah, because your love life is so much better. You're like a monk, dude.” Jonny shrugs, and Patrick smiles.

 

Patrick continues, “I just get so sick of talking about the same damn things, you know? Can't even remember the last time I gave a performance.”

 

“So why don't you turn up and _play_ then?” Jonny asks, and he might sound casual, but Patrick can see the tightness in his jaw that he'd come to recognise as a sign that Jonny's frustration levels are up.

 

“Yeah, like it's that easy.” Patrick gripes. He sighs as Jonny shrugs impatiently. “Come on, bro, give me a break. The places that I used to play for won't have me any more, and the places that want me aren't interested in listening to me play. Most of them are talk stations anyway: they won't even have the right kind of equipment, a vocal mic, an outboard or anything. It'd sound like shit.”

 

Jonny's eyes flash. “Those sound like the excuses of a sellout, Pat.” In a different tone, Patrick would laugh it off as a joke, but Jonny's got this look in his eyes, like he's trying to convey something important, something real. He raises his hands, palms out, placating. “I don't...I know it's not my place, but you could do so much better.” He tries to sound reasonable, but Patrick's not in the mood for reasonable – he's had a shitty interview, Coach has rejected another one of his songs – not good for the MTV crowd – and now Jonny's calling him a sellout. He'd rather not admit how hurt he is – after Jonny'd written in his book, he ‘d thought Jonny understood.

 

“Yeah, well, who the fuck asked you?” Patrick snipes back, feeling his shoulders tense. Jonny just stares at him, like he's waiting on Patrick to make a choice. Patrick stares back, feeling conflict like a sharp clawed rodent rising in his chest. Jonny takes a step closer, checks himself and stands awkwardly in the middle of Patrick's lounge – a lounge that can probably fit three of Jonny's apartments in, Patrick realises.

 

“I thought I could tell you, as a friend.” Jonny says, tight and flat. “I thought you wanted a solution to a problem, rather than just bitching.”

 

“Well, you aren't that person. I've got fuck-tons of friends, Jonathan.”

 

Jonny's head snaps up, and his weight falls back onto his back foot like he's been checked. “Yeah, Mr. Kane, you've got plenty of _friends_. The guys and girls who give me shit when I'm checking their I.D.s, who tip me in nickels and try and give me money when I find their microphones?” Patrick just blinks at him, because, what? Jonny shakes his head, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I tried, Mr. Kane.” 

 

It's all he says as he leaves the apartment.

 

+1)

Jonny doesn't feel good about calling in sick. His attendance record has been basically impeccable since forever, but he doesn't see that he has another option. Pat...Mr Kane hadn't been in touch, Coach hadn't called to fire him (Jonny stopped checking his phone obsessively about three days in), and he's not going back until...okay, he doesn't quite know the answer to that, but still. He's arranged a replacement, though, because he's still fucking good at his job.

 

It takes about a week for Jonny to move from burning anger to a more simmering regret. It's way too easy to sit and brood – the job was one of the best, if not the most frustrating, that he's ever had. And that's without mentioning his stupid, terrible, ridiculous crush on the guy. He’d not meant to run his mouth - he knows it was dumb and out of order, but in his defence, it'd been the third time he'd heard the exact same thing that week. Jonny'd been running interference on that shit for months - he thought that there could only be so many times that Patrick could 'casually' wonder how the gossip columns found his secrets; how they knew details that Patrick was sure he'd only mentioned in emails to Coach, or to a girl at one of Coach's parties before he worked it out – he's not the dumb blonde some people make him out to be – but apparently not. Still, it couldn't have been nice to hear it that way.

 

Jonny spends the week doing a lot of running, consciously choosing the most obscure rap music he can download as his running tracks so he has no chance of being reminded of Patrick. The music is slow, soulful, and a little too like the ridiculous and terrible verse he left in Patrick's notebook – the one he'd either never seen or never wanted to mention. He doesn't want to think about that, so he goes hard, pounding his frustration into the ground. It's starting to get dark as he heads back, dark enough that the figure in the shadows outside triggers him to slow down, to approach slowly, rolling his shoulders and extending his toes so that he's limber if he needs to fight. It's not really an overreaction in a neighbourhood like his, even if his adrenaline levels hadn't been up for days. He's just moving into the shadows himself when two things happen: Jonny's phone buzzes in his pocket, and the figure takes out a baton, or something.

 

Jonny checks his phone – unknown number. He ignores it, invested in watching the stranger. The stranger looks at his torch – no wait, not a torch, the light is wrong – and groans loud enough for Jonny to hear over ten feet away. His phone buzzes again and he rejects the call. The figure shakes his head, moves into the light from the street lamp. Jonny's phone goes.

 

 _It's me. Patrick. I can SEE you._. And, oh.

 

Jonny steps forward, trying to get a better look at the figure - his heart’s still pounding from the run and he’s not quite reassured enough to give his sight-line away. The figure moves into the beam of a street-light, Jonny clocks the height of the would-be-attacker, the _curls_ and Jonny realises what he’s missed. His frustration at himself and the confusion is enough to carry him for a few seconds, forgetting how awkward this is.

 

Patrick just smiles, a little lopsided, but it meets his eyes. “Can I...fuck, Jonny, can I come in?”

 

Jonny doesn't know what to say to that, but Patrick’s here (how is he here? Had to have been in his records, somewhere) and that's enough to let him in. He's kind of expecting Patrick to be a dick about his shitty apartment (not even _his_ , he shares with two other dudes– he found this place through an ad), but Patrick just wordlessly follows him up three flights of stairs and through the door.

 

“Do you have anything to drink? Something warm, I've been out there a while.” It's not a particularly smooth opener, but it give Jonny a task to focus on while his mind catches up with what's going on.

 

“Yeah. Was running.”

 

“Would never have guessed,” Patrick chirps, gesturing at his sweatband, his sweat patterned t-shirt and probably his red face. Jonny just shrugs, concentrating on grabbing cups and spoons and heating the water.

 

Patrick seems to take this as an opportunity to wander around his apartment (a pretty short trip) before making a small noise. “Dude, we totally have the same couch.”

 

Jonny doesn't even need to turn to look at him before he replies, “We really don't. Unless you picked it up from the 'Sale' section of Ikea.” There's silence, and Jonny turns to see Patrick staring at him.

 

“Um, I might have done. Don't judge me – I had a lot of space to fill, and Jessica loves it there, and...” He trails off, then starts again. “I didn't actually turn up at your place to talk about furniture.” Jonny snorts, low and kind of frustrated, because _no shit_ , but the ball's in Patrick's court.

 

“I...I did some thinking. About what you said. And then some research. And then I mentioned to Coach that Taylor Swift'd called me – I dunno why, seemed so ridiculous when you said about it, I'd be batting way above my average there – and he didn't even ask any questions. My mum called me the next day to ask why I hadn't told her – she saw it on Twitter.” Jonny doesn't say anything, because 'I told you so' would be a really dick move and Patrick...Patrick's standing in the middle of his lounge, eyes wide and a little cloudy, but his chin is up and his shoulders are set. He doesn't need Jonny to say anything – he looks like he's got this.

 

“I've been writing songs. Well, that's nearly true – I saw what you wrote. I finished it. Coach _hated_ it, but I thought it was awesome. You're good at it.” Patrick smiles at Jonny like he's something precious, and Jonny has to clench his fists not to do something stupid. He's happy that Patrick's here, happy that it looks like they could be on friendly terms, but that's the best he's going to get out of this – if he touches him, he will hug him, and if he hugs him, he might just kiss him, and then they're back to where they were.

Patrick seems to take his silence as criticism, though, because he hurries on, “It occured to me that if I couldn’t play what I wanted to play, it wouldn’t be fun - and I don’t do things that aren’t fun.” Patrick grins, just a little cocky, and Jonny can’t help smiling back. “And I clearly can’t trust him. Also, if he won’t accept awesome songs, I guess he’s gonna flip when I tell him my news…” Patrick shakes his head, like he’s gone off track. 

He takes a deep breath, continues, “I've spoken to Duncs and Seabs, and their agent. It's just the planning stages, right now, all secret and whatever, but she'd be happy to sign me. It’s not gonna be exactly the same, but it could be _better_ ” He sounds so hopeful that Jonny can't help his smile, can't help reaching out to tap his fist against Patrick's – he's not sure how they got his close, up against Jonny's kitchen counters. “Say something, bro.”

“I'm really glad for you.” It sounds trite, but he forces himself to keep eye-contact, even though Patrick's close enough that Jonny can see the little wispy curls on Patrick's forehead.

“I'm going to be busy, though, for a bit. I'm gonna need the most annoying dude in the world to help me organise my shit, keep an eye-out for me, run a bit of interference on the crazy fans…”

Patrick trails off, and Jonny grins - he assumes that means he’s back on the job. It’s not quite an apology, but it’ll do. Actually...

“I am sorry, though. I could’ve told you differently, been straight with you about what I’d seen. I thought maybe...I dunno, like you liked the attention or something.” It’s as truthful as Jonny’s capable of, right now - he can only just admit to himself that he was a little jealous, he’s not ready to do it outloud, yet.

Patrick nods, eyes thoughtful, then bites his lip. “I...yeah, I can see how it might’ve looked. But.” He pauses, and Jonny waits. He can feel in the ready coil of his body that there’s still tension in the air. He tries to relax against the worktop, tries not to reach out. He’s just here for the job. Patrick breathes deep, so deep Jonny can see his skin move over his clavicles, and starts again. “I haven’t been interested in a while. In...any of them, really. Been kinda looking one way, at one guy."

Patrick’s tone is casual, but it _stings_. Jonny knows it’s a big step for him, can see the effort it cost Patrick to tell him, but fuck. Fuck. Jonny knows he should say something reassuring, supportive, but he can't help the pang of jealousy he feels. He tries to turn away, because Patrick is way too close all of a sudden, and he can't keep a hold on this conversation, but Patrick reaches out, grabs his arm. Jonny panics, blurts out the first thing that crosses his mind. 

“Okay, cool, like, congratulations! Is the new agent down with that?” Jonny manages, then tries not to slap himself - why would he ask that? Patrick blinks at him, looks at him like he’s got three heads for a second, then shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. 

“Is that all you’re gonna say?” Patrick asks, and it sounds challenging, incredulous, but there’s a crack in his voice, and he’s blinking again, harder now, eyes screwing shut before they open again - Jonny’s struck by how bright they are, how blue. Patrick stares back, before scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Jonny? If you don't want to, you can just say.” Patrick's grabbing at Jonny's bare skin, fingers digging in. 

Jonny's pretty sure he's missed something again, so this time he just asks. “Want to do what, Patrick?”

Patrick frowns, looks at Jonny like he's amazed Jonny can even manage to fix coffee. “Date. Me. I know it’s gonna be hectic, for a while, and I know how much you’re into your job, and I don’t see why you can’t do both.” Patrick shrugs, like it's no big deal, like he’s willing to walk away. “Or not...I understand if you're still mad, or if you don't want the attention, or if you’re not into it, whatever. But I had to tell you, and it was either this or write you a song.” Patrick looks up at him, expression open, like he’s waiting for Jonny, and Jonny finally, finally gets it.

Jonny reaches out, gathers Patrick into his arms like he’s been aching to do for the last half hour, for the last five months. Jonny lowers his head, lips just about to touch, when Patrick grins. “Does this mean you’re in? Are we gonna make sweet, sweet music together?” 

Jonny’s so far gone on this idiot that he can’t even bring himself to chirp Patrick, so into him that he even _laughs_ , and then drags him into a kiss that rapidly progresses from shy and tender into a gasping, biting mess. Jonny’s sweaty and messy from his run, and Patrick keeps trying to push him backwards into his sink which is full of last week’s dishes, but yeah, it is pretty sweet. It’s not perfect, but it’s a good start.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the interesting prompts, oops-ohdear. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks also to svmadelyn, for organising and being generally awesome.


End file.
